The House Edge
by Alex L. Kerr
Summary: Sam is fourteen years old and doesn't really need Dean anymore. He tries to restructure their relationship... and does more harm than good.
1. Ante Up, Gentlemen

**Writer's Note:** Hello! Worked on this story over the weekend. Planning on posting literally every day - the story should be finished and complete within the week.

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**Chapter 1: Ante Up, Gentleman**

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"Could you.." Sam batted Dean's hand off his shoulder irritably, "-not?"

"What? I'm just messin' with ya," Dean roughly ruffled Sam's hair, which was still growing out from the Nair incident.

"_Dean_, Jesus Christ, _stop_!" Sam hit Dean's hand off him again and turned to stare daggers. Dean snickered.

"Seriously, it's not funny," Sam yelled, furious at his brother's amusement. He was sitting at the small table studying math while Dean had been hovering over him calling out random numbers to throw him off.

At Dean's apparent lack of regard, Sam gave a sharp shove at his brother to push him away. Dean guffawed as he took a mock-step backwards.

"Ah you're _weak_!" Dean laughed, about to step back into Sam's space. Before he could, Sam stood up to face his brother.

"Dean, seriously, _stop it!"_ Sam shouted just as Dean went in for the kill. Sam backed up against the wall as Dean tried to floor him.

"Stop it! _DEAN!" _Sam roared, livid, as he struggled against Dean's hold. Dean wasn't taking no for an answer though, and just as he wrapped his leg around Sam's ankles to leverage him down, he felt a hard punch to his temple.

"Ah, what the _fuck_, Sam?!" Dean grunted, letting go and backing up as he held his head. The back of his knees found the bed and he sat down. "No head shots, you asshole," he whispered vehemently as he blinked at the floor, dazed.

"You know what I would really fucking love, Dean? I would really appreciate it if you just didn't _touch_ me, okay?!" Sam yelled, pissed that he had to resort to punching Dean like that just so he could get through to him that he didn't want to horse around.

"Dude, relax," Dean grumbled tiredly, sore from the hit.

"No! Screw you! I said no and you didn't back off - seriously, just don't _touch_ me. Starting now, okay?!"

"Whatever, man," Dean murmured, lifting himself off the bed and walking into the bathroom. He slammed the door shut. Sam sat back down at the desk and flicked his pencil angrily as he stared at his textbook, seething.

It was the last straw; Dean had been bothering Sam a lot lately and Sam was sick of it. He really wanted the new rule to stick: Dean should leave him alone. Dean shouldn't touch him or his stuff. If Dean could manage it, it'd be _really_ fucking great if Dean could just pretend for _one_ _day_ that Sam didn't exist so that Sam could actually breathe.

It wasn't a lot to ask: Dean had dad, he had hunts, he had bars and women to entertain him. Meanwhile Sam was trying to make friends and keep up his grades as a freshman in high school. Their lives weren't matching up and Sam was pissed that Dean wasn't noticing - that Dean wasn't distancing from him even though every _normal_ sibling would.

_Fuck_, what Sam wouldn't give just to feel normal.

He resolved that night, gritting his teeth as he stared at his textbook, to emphasize distance between them. It was part of growing up and he was _fourteen_. He didn't depend on Dean anymore and his own streak of independence ran so strong that he was getting offended every time Dean interacted with him. Everything about Dean reminded him of being treated like a child. He was reaching a point of maturity that bluntly rejected the notion.

**...**

The following afternoon, Dean picked Sam up from school. Sam gave unusually glib answers to Dean's questions about his day. Later that evening, Dean gave Sam a small joking punch to his arm and Sam shied away from it.

"What's wrong with you? You're acting weird."

"No, nothing. It's just..." Sam trailed off, unsure.

"What?"

"Just... What I said yesterday."

"What, about not touching you?" Dean asked, surprised that Sam was referring to the bizarre request he'd made the night before.

"Yeah. I... meant it," Sam said quietly. Inwardly, he was still holding his grudge; still boiling with contempt. He told himself it was for the best, though: siblings grow up to be equals. Dean would never see him as an equal if he kept messing with him and his stuff. Sam needed to draw the line.

Dean's brows furrowed with annoyed confusion, staring at Sam. Sam looked up at Dean, holding his brother's gaze to stress his sincerity. After a couple of beats, Dean's expression went blank and open.

"Uh, okay," Dean said slowly. Sam watched Dean as he visibly let it go and turned around to walk into the kitchen. He pulled the pasta off the stove and moved over to the sink, expertly maneuvering the pot's steaming contents into the colander. Sam held still a second with pursed lips, then looked back down at his textbook to resume his work. A few minutes later Dean announced dinner was ready and Sam padded in to grab a plate.

...

The following day Dean still asked about Sam's day when he picked him up from school. Sam replied with the same glib answers. Dean stopped asking questions earlier than he had the day before. Usually they chatted all the way back to the motel but halfway through, after hearing several bland monosyllabic responses from his little brother, Dean just fell silent and waited a few beats for Sam to offer anything more in the way of conversation. Sam, happy to keep his day to himself, sighed and looked out the window. Sam felt slightly uneasy but he quickly shrugged it off and relaxed when Dean moved to turn the music up. Sam quirked a smile: maybe this was progress. Maybe they're going to get along better now that they're not telling each other _everything_. Sam wondered how far it could go - how close to _normal_ they could get.

...

"You look stressed out," Dean observed, turning his gaze from the TV screen to Sam. His booted feet were on a shelf, casually balancing as he tilted his chair back.

"I _am_ stressed out," Sam replied irritably as he stared at his textbook, tapping his pen against it. Dean waited a few beats, expecting Sam to elaborate. But he didn't.

"What's... going on?" Dean prompted, obviously off-put that he had to ask a follow-up question.

"I have an exam tomorrow," Sam replied quickly, still staring at the textbook.

"Uh huh," Dean trailed, squinting his eyes in annoyance. Sam was making him feel like an interrogator. Sam sighed and reluctantly turned to look at Dean. Dean smothered his resentment in order to listen.

"I'm going over practice questions and I'm not getting the right answers for about a quarter them," Sam brushed his hand through his hair. He looked at the clock and gestured to the time: nine o'clock. "It's so late already too," he murmured.

"S'it before or after lunch?" Dean asked. Sam blinked, recognizing the practical question.

"After."

Dean nodded and wobbled his precariously-tilted chair forwards and backwards, thinking.

"Okay well," he landed the chair back down gently and swiveled his body to face Sam. "Let's work on it together," he suggested. Dean stood up and stretched, prepping himself. He approached the table Sam was working on and noticed his little brother's expression.

"What?"

"What did you even get in geometry?" Sam asked. He knew his skepticism would come off as insulting, but he did it anyway because, well, he just didn't want Dean's help. His grades shouldn't be a group effort. They should be all his.

Dean bit his tongue and didn't take the bait. He shrugged.

"I don't remember. Doesn't matter, though," he said lightly, sitting down across from Sam at the table. "We'll work stuff together. It'll be like Team Sam. You can review alone at lunch tomorrow and then totally ace it, right?" Dean leaned forward and reached to pull Sam's notebook towards him as he spoke. Sam reacted, quickly pulling the papers away from Dean and closer to him. Dean looked up, confused.

"No, Dean. I have to focus-"

"I won't distract you-"

"Yeah. You will," Sam interrupted with a tone of finality. Dean cracked a smile, about to laugh until he looked into Sam's eyes.

The kid was dead serious.

Dean immediately let his hand drop and pulled back from the notebook. He licked his lips and nodded, glancing at the floor as he briefly allowed an expression of hurt confusion to pass.

"Dean it's just that these are _my_ grades, you know? It's not like _we're_ together on it. It's my ass on the line for this. I have to study really hard-" Sam explained as Dean pushed off his chair.

"Yeah yeah, no I get it, Sam," Dean replied, waving at Sam to quit talking as he walked into the kitchen. Sam stopped and watched Dean pull a beer from the fridge. He capped it using his ring and took a swig as he moved to lean against the side of the kitchen's door frame.

"Trust me. Doin' math is not my choice activity anyway," Dean chuckled. Sam gave a weak smile and settled his eyes back down to his work. Dean took another sip of his beer and watched Sam for a few seconds more, thinking as he swayed the bottle from its neck like a pendulum.

Sam felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck, knowing he was being watched.

"Y'know why don't you like, go to a bar or whatever?" Sam suggested innocently, looking up at Dean and finding immediate eye contact. Dean's eyebrows raised in surprise and he opened his mouth for a reply but none came.

"What?" He asked stupidly.

"You know, go out. Have fun. S'it's what you do. I'm just sitting here - I can't be the greatest of company right now," Sam reasoned even as he saw Dean grimace, shrug, and shake his head at the idea.

"Don't really feel like it," Dean replied casually. He walked back to his chair and grabbed the remote.

...

John arrived for the weekend and noticed how polite and civil his sons were to each other. On the surface, they were perfectly in sync, avoiding conflicts well and engaging in light pieces of general conversation. Nothing dramatic, but also nothing substantial either.

...

It'd been a couple weeks now, and Sam had noticed that Dean rarely went out anymore. It was driving him nuts even though Dean wasn't directly bothering him. He just... stayed in. Watched TV, read books, worked on the car, did research if their dad called and asked for it.

Dean had stopped asking Sam to do research with him and Sam was happy to be let off the hook on that. He had schoolwork to focus on and if Dean was willing to spare him, Sam was going to take it.

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**Writer's Note: **Thank you so much for reading! What'd you think?! Please review/comment! ~ Alex Kerr


	2. Hit Me

**Chapter 2: Hit Me**

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Sam and Dean were running in the woods at top speed.

"Sam, look out!"

Sam whipped around and ducked a tree branch that would've hit him in the face. He continued running and looked over to his brother. Dean was gone.

"Dean!" Sam screamed even as he continued to run. He felt the thing coming up on him, thumping the wet forest floor, breaking branches and brush under its heavy body. It made soft grunting sounds at every push off the ground - Sam knew it was almost on him when he heard Dean shout in fear and pain off in the distance to his right.

"DEAN!"

Sam stopped, knowing the creature behind him would pounce immediately. It didn't matter, though.

"DEAN?!" He yelled, hoping to hear back.

"Sam."

Suddenly the forest grew blurry and it occurred to Sam that he was dreaming. He felt a palm on his cheek.

"Sam, wake up," Dean instructed calmly. Sam twitched his eyes and felt Dean's hand brush his hair back. Sam opened his eyes and found himself staring into Deans'.

"You okay?" He asked, his face the picture of concern. Sam swallowed and nodded as Dean kept one hand on Sam's chest, the other brushing his bangs off his face. He was overheated, his mouth dry; he felt like shit.

"It was just the fever," Dean murmured. He leaned over to grab the cool washcloth he'd just re-soaked and rubbed it lightly down Sam's forehead, face and neck. "I think it's breaking." Sam closed his eyes. It was so comforting. Dean was the only one in the world Sam didn't have to have his guard up for.

But then Sam remembered. He reached up to take the washcloth from Dean's hand.

"I got it," he said. Dean let him have it. As soon as Sam took it, he noticed Dean still hovering over him.

"I'm fine now. Thank you," Sam said, his voice hoarse, as he started to move around so Dean would take his hands off him. Dean jerked his hands away as if Sam's body was hot to the touch and backed off the bed.

"S-Sorry. My bad," he offered, realizing that he'd violated the whole no-touch thing. He bit his lip as he turned away, trying to contain his worry and repress the fact that Sam had just hurt his feelings worse just now than any other time. He turned back around to face Sam.

"Do... D'you need help with anything?" He offered. Sam was sitting up in bed holding his face in his hands. He shook his head.

"Nah. I'm gonna take a shower," he said, his voice slightly shaky but otherwise he was fine. Dean nodded silently and couldn't find it in himself to make even one lame joke.

...

Sam and Dean were walking back to the motel after a quick trip to the nearby convenience store for a few things. Sam was engrossed in what he was saying to Dean, not minding the traffic, and Dean lightly pulled him back to stay on the curb.

"-Dean!"

"What? A car was coming."

"You could've just told me a car was coming."

Normally, Dean wouldn't have thought anything of it. Not now, though. Not after so many little things about the way Dean treated Sam had come under fire. Dean pinched his face at Sam, then tried to let it go.

"Whatever, man."

**...**

It'd been about a month, now. John was home for the weekend. He was struck by Dean's demeanor. He wasn't making jokes, barely laughed or even smiled. He looked like he'd be beaten but there were no marks. He was quiet, stayed inside.

John actually had to _convince_ him to go out for a beer with him. Dean wanted to stay near Sam, though, which made no sense to John. The two of them weren't even talking between each other much. When he'd begun to try to get Dean out to the bar with him, Sam had suddenly joined in, surprising him even more.

Sam was on his bed with a book, Dean was walking to the fridge after he'd initially rejected his father, and John was leaning against the door frame, watching his eldest.

"Dean, you should go, you'll have a good time with dad. The place looks cool, too," Sam spoke up from the bed. Impressed, John turned to look over at Sam to read his expression. The kid looked genuinely hopeful. John wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

"It's just another roadside bar, Sam," Dean grumbled, capping a beer with his ring and walking into the living area, passing his father.

"One that I could use right about now. And I'd like company. C'mon, Dean," John threw in good-naturedly, grabbing the front of Dean's shirt and pulling him to the front door. It was playful, not meant to be serious, but Dean didn't smile and instead caught the arm John had on him. John didn't realize until he'd gotten Dean to the front door that Dean hadn't been mock-struggling with his hold. He'd just been holding his arm as John led him.

John gave his son a confused look as Dean gave the merest flicker of a smile when he let go and grabbed his leather jacket on the hook. John looked over behind Dean to Sam.

"Don't wait up for us, Sammy," he waved.

"It's Sam, dad," Sam grinned.

"Yeah yeah..."

John could've sworn Sam was never that happy when Dean would go out with him. Occasionally he'd be sullen because _he'd_ want to come out with them too, but _this_ attitude was a new one on him.

Not able to forget Dean's moment of not-quite-holding his hand, John wrapped an arm around Dean and his son leaned into it as they left the room.

That night John had seated himself closer to his son than was usual and kept an even, genuine tone when he asked him what was up between him and his brother.

Dean claimed it was nothing - the kid was just going through a phase. Hormones and being a teenager had him riding pretty high on himself. It'd blow over.

John listened and nodded. His eldest was close to convincing him but for the fact that he could tell Dean was hurting. He hoped Dean was right, though - that it'd just blow over. He switched the subject for Dean's sake and the kid livened up.

They relaxed and talked the rest of the night. Played darts - got good and drunk. John noticed that Dean was staying close to him. He'd scoot his chair closer, lean in closer, pat and nudge him more often than he normally did.

John was hardly a cuddly guy, but he made sure not to give the slightest hesitance or rejection. Something told him Dean needed that.

**...**

"'kay, I'll be back in a few," Dean said, patting himself down, making sure he had the keys. Sam looked up.

"Where you going?"

"Grocery store - you wanna come with?" He added as Sam got up and stretched. He'd been hunched over a textbook for about two hours.

"Nah I'm gonna go take a walk, I think," Sam said lazily, walking over towards Dean to leave the motel room at the same time. Dean stared at Sam, his lips pursed.

"What?" Sam asked, noticing.

Any other time, Sam would've been happy to tag along with Dean. He also pretty rarely passed up the opportunity to go to the grocery store: Dean wasn't the only one that loved food, after all. Sam would often find his favorites and convince Dean to spend a little more just to have whole wheat bread or whatever.

"What's with you?" Dean asked, searching for the answer in Sam's reaction. Sam gave a slight jerk back and tilted his head.

"What do you mean? I go for wal-"

"No, like," Dean paused, trying to get Sam to understand, "-you know what I mean."

Sam raised his eyebrow.

"You think something's with me just because I want to take a walk instead of go with you to the grocery store?"

Dean didn't appreciate the simplification. Sam knew damn well what he was doing - what he'd _been_ doing.

"Yeah," Dean replied, surprising Sam. "Yeah, and about twenty billion other little things that're making you a total asshole to be around!"

"Dean, seriously? You haven't gone out like _once_ in the past _month_. If anything I've become somehow _better_ to be around now," Sam jabbed, thinking maybe it'd get Dean to go out for once.

"I'm staying in because this attitude of yours' is freaking me out, Sam!" Dean yelled back.

"Why? Because I'm growing up? Because I don't need you?" Sam snarled, crossing his arms.

Dean recoiled at Sam's words. He backed up slowly and leaned against the wall. He washed his hand down his face as he shook his head, suddenly understanding - and disapproving.

"Dean-"

"Sam," Dean said, snorting a rueful laugh and looking back up at his little brother, "you haven't convinced me of either of those things. This past month have, in fact, _reversed_ any opinion I have about how much you've grown," Dean air-quoted his last word.

"That's the _point_, Dean! I don't give a shit about your approval anymore!" Sam yelled, glaring at his brother, unwilling to acknowledge that he was so upset right now because he was lying - and Dean's words had cut.

Sam's words were an equal arrow to the heart, though. Dean still stood his ground. He gave a nasty smile back at Sam and shrugged.

"Go take your fucking walk, Sam," Dean shoved the door open and as it banged against the wall, he gestured for Sam to go out first.

_How the fuck does he _do_ that, _Sam wondered, feeling dismissed and dishonored even though he knew Dean would be following him out at the same time.

Fuming, Sam broke their eye contact and walked determinedly out the door. His mind storming, he stepped out and crossed the parking lot quickly, not looking back even though he wanted to.

Dean stared after him. He knew Sam was furious and Dean had to admit that that two-second yelling match had stirred up some anger. But really Dean felt sad that it had been the most substantial conversation they'd had since this whole thing had started. He was also scared that Sam was actually becoming the thing he was describing. If he was being really honest with himself, he was terrified that Sam was actually succeeding in cutting ties with him. Hero worship was one thing - Dean knew that would soon be coming to an end - but refusing to go to a grocery store? Hang out together? Help him with his homework? _Touch_ him? What the hell.

Sam reached the street exit of their motel room. He hadn't looked up once, but his senses were excellent and visibility was low anyway given that it was dusk. He heard nothing as he stepped across the street, still pissed off.

He was halfway across when a shout tore across the pavement.

"SAM!"

Sam suddenly registered his shadow on the ground to his right - growing more and more pronounced as the headlights of a car were approaching. His shadow grew sharper too quickly - the car was speeding and Sam looked up just as he felt a hard jolt, his breath escaping him as he got push-launched in the back towards the side of the street.

He landed hard on the asphalt and gasped, not knowing what had just happened. He heard a car's engine rumbling and the box-like metallic sound of the driver's door opening.

"-Oh my god, oh my god-" Sam heard a woman's frantic voice. It sounded weak and stark in the air. No other cars were passing and across the street was a park - small birds were chirping lightly, the trees swaying and rustling gently under easy winds.

"Are you okay?! Can you hear me?!" She asked, only she wasn't hovering over him. "Hello?!" She yelled, scared.

"Yeah..." Sam murmured, having caught his breath. He vaguely heard her swearing under her breath until she spoke up again.

"Hi yeah I just hit a guy with my car we're on Landon road, in front of the Eastside Motel. No, he's not conscious-" She continued talking to the dispatcher, but Sam's brain had kicked into overdrive. He blinked and sat up immediately with a groan and the woman's eyes darted to look at him.

"Are you okay? Do you know this guy?!" She asked. Sam squinted, slowly adjusting his eyes to the dark, then widening them as he saw the unconscious figure on the ground, lit up by the headlights.

"DEAN!"

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**Writer's** **Note**: Ah, the dreaded cliffhanger. Fear not, Chapter 3 will be easily polished within twenty-four hours and sent your way. In the meantime, what did you guys think?! Please comment/review if you can spare the time - I love hearing your thoughts! ~ Alex


	3. Playing Policy

**Writer's Note: **And so, friends, this is what happens when I write a full-length story with meaningful chapter titles before I even start posting: two chapters in one day. My sincerest apologies for cluttering your mailbox if you've signed up for alerts. I know how annoying that can be, but the process by which I've done this (and am still doing this) makes it necessary for me to post these things as their own chapters. I could elaborate further, but I'm sure you just want to continue the story. So, again, my apologies, and (hopefully) happy (or... angsty) reading! ~ Alex

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**Chapter Three: Playing Policy**

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Through the haze, Dean felt a warm pressure on his wrist, then pressing into his hand. Long, bony fingers wrapped around his and Dean knew it couldn't be his father. He barely opened his eyes, letting just a small sliver of light breach past the lid to allow him to see in the right direction. He could recognize the blurry thing as Sam; he could just feel his brother's presence. And suddenly it clicked that Sam was actually touching him - holding his hand - in the hospital room.

"Dean?" Sam called out, his voice cracking.

Dean rolled his eyes, unable to handle the flow of emotions running through him, and closed them all the way again. He licked his lips and winced.

"Yeah," he rasped, then started trying to move his limbs, starting with the hand Sam was holding. It worked - he found himself opening and closing his palm on Sam's. Sam returned the pressure, thinking Dean wanted him to - and feeling better already. Dean was practicing the muscle though, making sure he could move it all the way before he slowly pulled his hand from Sam's touch.

"Y'don'... hafta... preten'" Dean whispered as he settled his hand on his chest. It felt better this way now. He could monitor his breathing better. At least that's what he told himself.

"-But..." Sam struggled to say what he wanted to say, "I want... to."

Dean opened his eyes to slits again, looking skeptical.

"To hold my hand?" He asked candidly, unashamed. He could see the embarrassment in Sam's expression and felt the now-familiar emotional plummet that always came with Sam's shots of rejection. Trying to come off neutral, Dean breathed evenly and closed his eyes. "S'not a one-way street, dude," he sighed. He knew he'd just hurt Sam; could feel it. He kept his eyes closed so he didn't have to see Sam's expression. Eventually, he let out a heavier sigh, ready to start talking again.

"What happened?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"You got hit by a car," Sam whispered.

"Oh yeah," Dean said vaguely, starting to remember snippets of what had gone down. "Where's Dad?"

"Here. Out for coffee... Does it hurt?" Sam blurted the question.

"No," Dean lied, "Tell me when he gets here if I pass out again," Dean murmured, using the term, 'pass out,' as the casual reference for sleep.

Without getting Sam's response, Dean turned over in the hospital bed, putting his back to Sam.

Sam stared at his brother's back, stunned. His eyes started prickling with tears. For the first time in awhile, Sam felt insecure. Witnessing the accident was enough, honestly, but even just now... Simply seeing Dean in a hospital gown in the bed made Sam reel with fear and anxiety. And now after all this, Dean was turning his back on him.

Dean was supposed to be indestructible; he's never supposed to be in a hospital - never supposed to look this vulnerable or sick or injured. Dean needed to be in the Impala driving, in a bar flirting, in the motel room bothering him. Not in a hospital recovering. Not this. And not because of him.

Sam needed to apologize for the accident. He needed Dean's forgiveness. He needed Dean's assurance that he was okay - that he'd be okay. Sam needed so much from Dean and the first step to any of those things had to start with a genuine touch of affection. He wanted to feel his brother touch back... And tell him not to worry - tell him everything was going to be okay.

But Sam had made the policy. Sam had established an invisible wall that barred affection between the two of them. Sam never realized that the wall would be there under _these_ circumstances, though. Dean was in the _hospital_, for Christ's sakes. Normal families touch their loved ones in the hospital. Dean was taking his no-touching policy too far.

"Dean," Sam croaked finally, his initial devastation turning into anger. He saw Dean's back flinch at the sound and hoped he hadn't woke him up even though he probably had.

"What?" Dean asked tiredly, still faced away from Sam.

"You're being mean to me," Sam asserted, sounding young and vulnerable. He thought he'd be angrier than this, but really he just needed to clarify - to explain to Dean that the no-touching thing was just for casual stuff. Stuff like this - stuff like when you're in the hospital - _then_ it'd be okay.

Dean snorted and remained on his side. Sam flared up with resentment, waiting for Dean to acknowledge the accusation by saying something to him. After a few beats of silence, he heard Dean whisper.

"Okay, Sam."

It dawned on Sam that Dean hadn't called him, 'Sammy,' in the longest time. Not since the day he'd told Dean he was serious about wanting him to leave him alone. He suddenly got stuck on a loop of thought: Dean hasn't referred to Sam as his little brother or as, 'Sammy,' in so long. Too long. Sam's mind whirled into self-pity: Dean didn't think of him like his brother anymore. Dean was acting like Sam shouldn't be at his bedside. For the first time ever, Dean was acting like he wanted to see Dad more than him. They both loved their dad, but... but Dean always seemed happy enough to have Sam with him.

As the realization cycled over and over, Sam felt his body tense up, gearing towards heavier tears.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam suddenly choked out, overwhelmed. He saw Dean's whole body jerk at the sound of his voice and he knew it was because Dean was surprised Sam was actually crying behind him. Dean turned around in bed to face Sam again, confusion and concern written on his face.

"Sam," Dean whispered, his tone making it clear that he thought Sam should know better. "Why are you so upset?"

"BECAUSE!" Sam burst out, angry. He bit back a sob in order to keep going, his voice raw and strained, "Because I just... I just..." Sam broke down and covered his face with his hands. Dean just watched silently, cringing in sympathy as he watched Sam try to collect himself.

"When I said I wanted you to leave me alone, I didn't mean like _this_!" Sam confessed, raising his red eyes to look at Dean. It occurred to him that at any other time before now, Dean would've already reached out to him for a hug. But the invisible wall was still there.

Dean was now its purveyor and Sam _hated_ it.

Dean squinted his eyes, pained, as he stared at his distressed little brother.

"Sam, I don't know what you want from me-"

"I just want my _brother back_!" Sam interrupted, sobbing his words. Dean winced and shook his head.

"No, I don't think you do. You've made your point pretty clear, Sam," Dean stopped for a second, noticing his heart rate monitor start to beep a little faster. Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed that he had to be attached to a machine that'd alert everyone in the room how he was really feeling. Luckily he wasn't critical and the volume had been lowered, so the sound was muted. Dean sighed, hoping it'd calm him down, and continued. "I understand you don't need me. I'm even pretty sure you don't want me around," Dean added honestly, feeling his own tears start to gather. _Fucking great._ He clenched his jaw, willing himself to anchor down and stay steady.

"S' not true," Sam said resolutely despite his shaky voice. He shook his head as he spoke and clasped his lower lip with teeth.

"It's okay if it is though, Sam," Dean replied quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "It really is," he whispered. "I'm not upset anymore, really. A little sad, maybe... because...um..." Dean paused, noticing his composure was starting to crumble. Sam wasn't paying attention to the heart rate beep, but Dean felt each staccato siren burn into him as he tried to keep talking. But he wanted to get through this. "-because...I always thought-" Dean stopped now, realizing he couldn't say more. He rolled over on his back, unable to look into Sam's eyes. He blinked a few times, trying to get himself under control.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his voice small.

That one simple prompt coming from his little brother just tipped Dean over the edge, though. Sam watched in horror as Dean suddenly clasped his palm over his eyes. His neutral lips turned into a tight grimace and his whole body contracted. Sam hadn't seen Dean cry since he was like eight years old.

Dean was silent this time. Not like when they were kids. Dean was an eighteen year old _guy_ now. A man. A hunter. A pretty hardened one at that, having grown up in the life and all.

But despite it all, Dean's chest rose and fell rapidly and his body quaked in soft, quiet anguish as he laid there in the center of the hospital bed.

Sam watched with disbelief, unable to grasp the extent to which he'd hurt Dean. He hadn't known... He'd had no idea...

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**Writer's Note: **Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare a minute! ~ Alex


	4. Dealer's Ace in the Hole

**Chapter Four: Dealer's Ace in the Hole**

* * *

Dean tried a heavy inhale. His vocal chords got pinched in the process and when Sam heard Dean's own high-pitched whimper, he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to hug his brother and make him feel better.

"Dean-" Sam immediately got up and approached the bed, shakily reaching out. Just before he was about to touch, Dean saw Sam coming towards him and put his palms up, ready to push Sam away.

"Hey, _NO,_ _Sam_!" Dean commanded, his voice still trembling. It stopped Sam dead in his tracks. Sam bit his lip, tentatively hovering over his brother, begging him with his eyes to let him in.

A tear rolled down Dean's cheek after a blink as he stared up at Sam. His lips formed a thin line and determination flared in his now-sore eyes.

"Sam," Dean said, steadying his voice. Sam's lip trembled and he pursed them together. "I want you to be happy-"

"I'm not _happy_ right now!" Sam sniffled, shaking his head, still holding his arms out hoping Dean would give in. Another tear pulsed down a track on Sam's cheek and Dean let out a frustrated grunt and rolled his eyes.

"_Listen to me_. I want you to be happy. If you're happy with the way things have been, Sam, that's _okay_, do you understand me?" Dean asked genuinely. Sam nodded with dread, lowering his arms, scared about where Dean was going with this.

"Okay good," Dean whispered. He licked his lips and looked at Sam with compassion. "Thing is, if you want that. If you want that independence - if you want me to stay away - you can't... You can't just ask me for what you want right now," Dean said weakly, hating himself. He cringed in pain as he spoke his next words. "Because I can't..." Dean's voice broke, "I can't give it to you," he cried helplessly, shrugging. He shook his head, inwardly thinking about how much he was failing his little brother. But in the end, Dean just couldn't settle it in his head. He couldn't flip the switch of affection towards his brother off and on depending on whether Sam would reject or accept him. It didn't work like that.

Dean always knew they'd eventually level up to less physical interaction as they grew up. That was a perfectly reasonable and standard thing. But he never expected it to be out of one of them dictating when it was acceptable or not. Dean couldn't take those orders. Dean _wouldn't_ take those orders. The only thing Sam could do - and had been doing for the past month - was telling Dean to flip the switch off entirely.

Which he could do. Which he was willing to do for Sam. And now Sam was crying about it.

Dean wished the kid had more clarity. He'd been coasting on the idea that it was just because of his age, but Sam was so _smart_. After a couple of weeks, Dean had started having a terrible time rationalizing Sam's attitude - and had begun to _try_ to come to terms with the idea that Sam was simply genuinely repulsed by him.

Dean sighed sadly, facing away from the side of the bed Sam was on.

Sam stayed where he was, still hovering over his brother, desperately searching for a way to fix this. He looked down at his hands. No weapon in the world could break down this god damn wall and _all_ he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Dean right now.

"But... Dean," Sam said urgently, trying to get Dean to look at him. He didn't, but Sam could tell he was listening. "Dean, you practically saved my life-" Sam whispered, his voice raw with emotion as he grasped to this truth.

Sam flinched back when he saw Dean twist around to face him faster than he'd thought possible given his brother's injuries. His breath caught at the intensity of Dean's expression.

"Get this through your head, Sam. I'm only going to say this once... And don't you _ever_ make me say it again," Dean shot at his brother viciously. Sam trembled under the words, blinking in fearful surprise at the sudden shift of mood. Dean was furious.

"_Sam?_" Dean called, his eyes drilling holes into him. Sam nodded dumbly.

"I will _never_ let you go. Ever. I have always and _will_ _always_ do my best to protect you. No matter what you do. No matter how little you want me in your life. Do you understand me?" Dean demanded. Sam, overwhelmed and shaken by Dean's promise, couldn't respond.

"_Do you!?_" Dean shouted at his brother, making him jump.

"Y-yes," Sam stuttered, crying. Dean watched Sam. The kid was quaking as he stood at Dean's bedside.

"I will _always_ put down my life for yours', Sam," Dean intoned quietly but then increased volume as he continued, "-and that's _my_ fucking decision. _My_ choice. You can reject me all you want - and I'll go with it - but you will _never_ be able to change that."

Dean stopped, realizing that he'd worked himself up and needed to breathe. He smoothed the sheets on his lap and allowed a tear to slip free and drop onto the white cotton.

"It's who I am," Dean said softly, "no matter how much you hate me," he whispered, triggering Sam.

"_I don't hate you!" _Sam nearly screamed, fury and grief combining into the force of his voice.

"Spare me," Dean retorted, slumping back down and turning his head away from Sam again. Sam took a breath to continue what would surely turn into an epic young-adolescent tantrum when-

"_SAM!_" John's voice roared into the room from where he was standing at the threshold. Both boys looked up on automatic, but John's eyes were like knives into Sam. Sam gulped unconsciously, frozen. John took a few seconds, his expression growing more disturbed as his pupils tracked to Dean, taking in his eldest's tear-stained, bloodshot, pale and exhausted face. He looked back to Sam, his expression sending a message that drained Sam of any last vestiges of strength or anger he had: _what could you have possibly done to your brother to make him look like this?_

Sam, caught and bound by his father's expression, couldn't even take a breath; couldn't even say a word.

"Sammy," John said quietly now, the gravity of the situation having sunk in. It wasn't a time to contribute to loud voices or arguments. This wasn't petty. His sons needed to break.

"Sammy," John repeated calmly, "out."

It took a second for his words to register and when they did Sam looked down at the floor, nodded and backed away from Dean's bedside. Dean watched, his eyes hooded, his mouth slightly ajar as though he might say something, perhaps call him back. He didn't, though. He just stared after his little brother as he took his leave.

Sam passed by his father at the threshold of the door and walked into the hallway. He glanced up briefly as he passed and he shuddered under his father's deep gaze. He looked back down and crossed into the hall.

He was going to get the reaming of a lifetime in the middle of the hospital hallway now, in front of all the patients, nurses and doctors. If there was one thing their father never cared about, it was where they were when one of them had fucked up.

Sam stopped eventually, knowing he couldn't stave it off for much longer. He was surprised his father hadn't already grabbed him. He was expecting his father's heavy hand on his shoulder and a shove against the wall anytime now. His father was all for small mercies at the moment, Sam supposed, letting him gather himself before he turned to face him. Sam closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, building resolve.

He turned around, ready.

But no one was there.

The hallway was bustling with nurses and patients mostly. The usual sounds of monitors were beeping and Sam heard someone pop a balloon further down. A nurse burst into laughter at the front desk. A man in a wheelchair whizzed right by Sam's side. A doctor in scrubs appeared from where Sam knew the vending machine area was. She was crinkling the plastic wrapper of a Twinkie, having difficulty opening it as she carried several clipboards under an elbow and coffee in her hand.

"Dad?" Sam whispered unconsciously. He took a trial step, then another, walking back towards Dean's room.

_..._

John watched Sam pass and swiftly made his way to Dean's bedside. Dean's eyes weren't on him though. John leaned over and sat down on Dean's bedside. As soon as Sam disappeared from view, he watched his son rub a hand over his face with grief.

"Dean?"

The fact that Dean was lying in a hospital bed, having just sacrificed himself for a kid that had been treating him like a stranger... His left leg had been broken, his torso hurt from having nailed the windshield, scrapes and bruises from having fallen back onto the street's gritty asphalt. None of that was as overwhelming as the fact that he'd done it for Sam after the kid had been treating him like shit.

"Dean?" John asked again, leaning in further and touching his son's shoulder.

"He hates me, Dad," Dean's said weakly. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, John's head started shaking.

"No," he whispered, "he doesn't, Dean. Sam doesn't hate you."

Dean covered his face and gave a small sob. John reached for his son and Dean's arms shot out and wrapped around his father.

...

Sam reached the threshold and his gut clenched as he heard the sounds from inside. He leaned over and dared to look.

Dad was there sitting on Dean's bedside closest to the door. He'd maneuvered Dean; had grasped him under the arms and lifted him up in bed so Dean could hold onto him. Dean was full out crying - sobbing - into his father's arms.

It was like a car wreck - Sam couldn't break away from the scene of his tough-as-nails, cocky, _invincible_ big brother... And his driven, vengeful, largely _absent_ father whispering to Dean, holding him like a child, rubbing his back and laying a hand still on his neck. Dean's body contracted and shook as he wept - Sam could see the motions jar his father as he absorbed everything. He'd just re-grip and tighten his hold on his eldest.

Sam's knees buckled and he slid smoothly and soundlessly down to the floor. Their father caught the slow collapse in his peripheral though, and his eyes gravitated to his youngest. Dean's cries still going strong against his father, John just looked at Sam in sadness. No contempt, no disappointment or anger. John looked away, closing his eyes and resting his head over Dean's shoulder. He took on a pained expression as Dean shook beneath him again. He repositioned himself, rubbed Dean's back more, and hushed him quietly.

Sam realized he was for the first time witnessing the pure, unadulterated devotion and love John had for his sons. And it was the worst, most terrible thing he'd ever seen.

Because _he_ was the cause of it.

_Sam_ was the destructive element here. Not some demon, werewolf or poltergeist. It was _Sam_ causing this breakdown.

The pit of guilt and shame in his stomach spread over all of him until it felt like it would swallow him whole. In shock, Sam wasn't even crying anymore. Still on the floor, he just leaned his head against the frame of the door in a stupor, awed that he could do this to his family. That he could do this to Dean. His gaze slowly drifted away, staring unseeing at the tiled floor. Sam zoned out, unable to take much more. He couldn't handle these consequences; he'd had no idea this was what he'd been building for weeks by closing down and shutting out.

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**Writer's** **Note:** Thank you for reading - Please comment/review if you can spare the time. ~ Alex


	5. Dealer's Soft 17

**Writer's Note: **Holy moly, you guys have me _floored_ about the number of reviews I got on the last chapter. I seriously can't thank you enough. So, since words can't express how thankful I am, I figured an early update would be a better, more fitting, gesture. Thank you again, guys!

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**Chapter Five: Dealer's Soft 17**

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"Sammy?"

Sam flinched, the voice coming from directly in front of him. He heard a couple of sharp snaps by his ear and Sam jerked his head, startled. He felt strong, gentle arms reach for him and pull him up to standing.

"C'mon... c'mon..." His father coaxed as he turned Sam to face forward and start walking into the hall. He didn't let go of Sam, though. He held him close, one hand resting on the center of Sam's chest, an arm wrapped around his waist. Dazed, Sam let himself be led. He didn't try to look where they were going. He felt a small pressure from his father's hands before they released.

"Sit down."

Sam sat down and moved in, feeling his father's presence settle next to him on his right. It was then that he looked around the room.

"Figured it'd be quiet and empty here. It'd be a different story if we were in the one closest to the ICU but we lucked out," John deadpanned. John's dark humor was always a sharp contrast to Dean's slapstick. Sam couldn't think of his own style of humor. He didn't think he had one.

John spread his body wide and braced his arm against the back of the pew behind Sam. Sam was hunched forward, looking at his hands. John glanced at him, then casually surveyed their surroundings. It was a small, modest, clinical chapel.

John remained silent, waiting, and Sam had another far-flung too-little-too-late revelation. Their father was keenly perceptive. More acutely aware of his sons' internal workings than Sam had ever given him credit for.

It seemed as though everything was knocking him off guard. Sam leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands.

"I just... I just thought we could be normal," Sam choked out. He suddenly desperately needed to elaborate - to get his dad to understand. If one of them could just _understand_... "I mean, I know we're not normal. But I'm getting older and thinking more about my life and what I want to do with it..." Sam watched his father. He was nodding along and Sam interpreted it as encouragement. "And I want to make more friends and hang out with them. I want more things that're _mine_ in my life-"

"Sam," his dad interrupted, "the things that your friends have that're theirs' - what are those things?" He asked openly. Sam chewed his lip, trying to detect if his father was trying to trap him. After a second John looked over to Sam, his expression simply curious.

"Um," Sam faltered for a second, then picked up on the question, "Homes. Off the top of my head, they have homes," Sam offered. John nodded at the item.

"What else?"

Sam's mouth went crooked as he thought about it.

"I... I've never met someone like this yet, but if I had a home, I'd want to collect books."

John smiled and nodded.

"That sounds like you, yeah," he murmured fondly. Sam felt his heart give a small jump of hope at his father's kindness. "You know..." John leaned back and looked at Sam pointedly but without judgment: "Libraries."

"I know," Sam conceded with a sigh, tilting his head down again. "And I know this sounds like I'm being materialistic and shallow."

"Luckily those are traits we both know you do not have."

Sam looked up at his dad and saw that he was speaking honestly.

"So, Sam, get to the core," John requested gently, "Why have you cut Dean off?"

Sam's breath caught but quickly returned. He leaned forward and rubbed his eyes.

"It was uh... It was a discussion I had," Sam replied, his voice strained with regret. John tilted his head.

"With a friend?"

"No no no... Not with... _any_ friends, actually," Sam replied, slightly surprised himself. "But I checked with them too, and it was pretty much unanimous..."

"I'm not following you, Sam," John murmured, acknowledging that he was probably missing something big... When was the last time he'd ever had a discussion with people who were not his friends?

_Oh._

"It was an in-class discussion. I placed in to the course when we moved - a lot of sophomores and juniors. I'm the only freshman..." Sam trailed off. John nodded. Leave it to Sam to try applying something he'd learned in school to his everyday life. _Why couldn't he have applied something like a healthier diet? _John agonized humorously.

"What was the topic?" John asked, casual. He watched Sam cover his face with his hands, then shake his head.

"Just... like... functional family stuff," Sam tried to wave it off.

"Uh huh," John murmured, leaving no doubt in Sam's mind that he expected more. Sam sighed.

"Everyone, including teachers, said normal functional families start distancing from each other as they get older. And that it starts with adolescence - in high school, kids that're still closely tied to their families instead of their friends aren't going to develop into well-adjusted adults. There's this thing called enmeshing-" Sam trailed off when he turned to look at his father.

John could barely contain his laughter. It was short-lived though - only a few chuckles - as Sam's look of devastation sobered John quickly.

"Sammy," John said patiently, "Oh Sam."

"_What_?" Sam asked, a little annoyed.

"Seriously, try to stay away from the softer sciences, bud... " John laughed quietly.

"Dad, everybody said it was true. Everybody said, 'you don't get to choose your family, but you get to choose your friends,' which makes your friends _better_, right? More likely to define you than your siblings or your parents when you're my age?" Sam spoke in rapid-fire, trying to justify himself, desperate to get John to understand that this was what everyone believed - this was what _Sam_ wanted. A slice of normal - a guarantee that despite the dysfunctional way in which he's grown up, he'll still be well-adjusted - he could still be _normal_. He needed that promise; wanted it so badly...

John sighed and looked at Sam pityingly. Sam hated it, but let it pass so that John could just respond to him.

"Sammy, our family's not normal."

"I _know_, Dad, but-"

"No wait. Hear me out," John countered. Sam acquiesced and watched as John folded his arms tightly, unconsciously bracing in anticipation. John sighed as a miserable metaphor occurred to him.

This was a game of Blackjack. John, at dealer's left, was blind: he could only play policy, really.

Sam, though. Sam was a novice in the middle. He played by policy in the hopes that his number would be higher than the dealer's.

And Dean, to the right of the dealer, was the only one who knew the rigged game for what it was and played only to bust the dealer.

Every distancing remark, every moment Sam pushed Dean off was Sam hitting a low card after another after another during the shoe. And Dean, helpless to stop the kid, had to watch him take all the cards that would bust the dealer.

Sam was playing directly into the house's edge, sabotaging the table. Sam had undercut all of Dean's resources, had served every cent up to the house on a silver platter. He had gotten Dean so far into debt that he couldn't play anymore.

So Dean had stepped off the seat, wished Sam the best, and promised him that he'd always be on the floor if he needed help. _Sam_ was Dean's fortune after all - not the house chips.

And now Sam was turning to his right at the poker table - or in a hospital's chapel pew - looking to his father, wondering what he'd done wrong. Wondering why Dean had had to bow out.

Damn, how John wished Sam wasn't so trusting; so innocent and willing to believe that a 'house' held fair odds that things would work out okay.

"Normal," had become a blackjack game to Dean at the age of four. John struggled to remember a time when Dean couldn't cut through illusions like a knife through butter. Dean had hawks' eyes when it came to presentation versus reality... and wielded the aptitude to his advantage only under appropriate circumstances. Only if his targets could afford it and only if the expense justified the income. Dean was not the house; Dean was better than the house.

John templed his fingers then clasped them together, inadvertently forming a praying pose. He licked his lips, wondering where to start.

"Sam, we're different from a lot of families..."

Sam snorted. John ignored it.

"Dean's not just your brother like most families have brothers, Sam," John tried to explain. Sam looked at him, skeptical.

"I... What? He's my brother, I don't-" Sam shook his head, unsure of his father's meaning. What else was Sam supposed to call Dean if not his brother?

"-We rely on each other... Heavily," John added. Sam shrugged and nodded, going along with his dad's statements.

"Yeah like on hunts," Sam offered, nonchalant. John cringed and gave a shaky nod. "What?"

"On hunts, yeah. You're not wrong..." John trailed off, pausing for emphasis for his next words,

"Sam, what would have happened if Dean had died today?"

Sam recoiled and shook his head.

"He wouldn't have _died_ today, Dad..."

"What if he had? How would you have felt?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond but John got there first.

"Stop. Don't talk. Just think about it," John requested patiently. Sam closed his mouth and looked down.

Sam reluctantly followed the train of thought his father had asked him to go on. Dean would've been taken to the hospital. Sam and John would've been there for him as he passed; Sam jumped that part, literally unable to imagine Dean on his deathbed.

Moving forward, Sam would have to be alone in the motel rooms unless John started asking him to go on hunts with him. Sam would have to take care of his own meals, have to watch TV or read his books without the company - or expected company - of his big brother. He'd have to learn to forge his father's signature.

Sam pictured the interior of an average motel room before any one of them had stepped inside and imagined having to step inside - and stay in there - without Dean. Sam realized it'd always be silent without Dean's constant movement, his preference for the TV's white noise or the radio on. It'd be so empty.

All the small bits and pieces of how Dean was so vital to Sam's life started to accumulate as Sam thought about it. When he was sick or having nightmares, no one would take care or wake him up. No one would be able to tell him they're watching out for him. If Sam ever needed to talk something out with someone, he'd have... no one. Maybe a few shallow friends he'd made in the space of time he'd been living in that particular town. No one would try to make him smile or laugh.

He imagined going on hunts with his father. He trusted John, but not as much as Dean. If Dean wasn't there, Sam wasn't sure if he'd feel okay enough to go out with just his father. He'd have to start cleaning the guns - he'd have to always think about how Dean would always be the one to do that, not him.

Sam would be given the Impala. At _that_ thought, Sam felt tears well up in his eyes as he imagined himself driving alone in Dean's baby. Glancing over to the passenger seat and knowing that _that_ was where he belonged. Not the driver's seat.

Sam glanced over to look at John and realized John had been engaged in the same thought exercise. He saw his father wipe his eyes and turn to look at Sam.

"God, I have so many memories of the two of you," John breathed, trying to smile as he sniffed and rubbed his eyes.

"'D,' was who you called for most often when you were a baby. The first time you ever walked it was to Dean - it was like a project for him, getting you to walk..." John paused, thinking, then started again, "Dean grew up knowing about monsters and demons. He let you go for eight... nine years without knowing..."

"I thought _you_ didn't want me to know."

John shrugged.

"I hadn't thought about it much before Dean had told me he was sure you shouldn't know."

Sam shook his head.

"I should've known earlier. You guys should've told me," Sam whispered, no real vehemence in his tone. John furrowed his brow and studied Sam.

"No, Sam. I shouldn't have. I knew I was going to be a hunter by the time you were nine months old. I knew I'd be gone most of the time. Every time Dean volunteered to be responsible for you, I let him have it because I knew, down the line, you would have to rely on him more than me while growing up."

"Dad-"

"Sam, Dean's not just your brother, okay?" he said slowly, "Dean raised you."

A few beats of silence and John spoke up again, his voice thick. "...And I'm so proud of him," he said, smiling through tears, directly at Sam.

Sam tried to smile back at the indirect compliment but he could only hold it for a second or two before his face screwed up and he gasped a sob, hunching into his father. John placed his hand on Sam's back.

"I'm so sorry."

John wrapped his arms around Sam's shaking frame.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered. "It's okay."

The next few minutes were silence as Sam relaxed against his father's chest, trying for control and failing every so often.

"Sam, you and Dean are as functional as you can be given your circumstances. If and when you start separating from Dean to do your own things, it's gonna be with Dean's support. I promise you."

"Okay," Sam whispered, feeling a wave of regret. He had really fucked this up - his father's calm words were just driving it home how much Sam had forfeited in acting like his brother's opinions meant nothing. Dean _did_ mean something - everything - to him... He thought distance had meant forced apathy, but his father was describing something else entirely. Describing an easier process that would lead to Sam becoming his own person with Dean's help, not absence.

God, he wanted _that_. He hadn't realized it was even an option. He had just been too busy shutting Dean off and rationalizing that it was normal and right...

"What do I do?" Sam's voice cracked, fully comprehending how desperate he was to fix this. How scared he was that there wasn't a solution; a way to repair the damage he'd done. Dean had acted like Sam had successfully convinced him that he hated him. He had no idea how to bring it back to what it used to be...

Sam found himself wave back into tears thinking about how he could've done this to his brother. It was worse that he'd convinced him. It would've been better if Dean was still angry or willfully ignoring it. But it felt like it was too late, now. Sam was so incredibly terrified that it was just too late.

John carded his hand through Sam's hair, soothing him into calm just as he'd done to Dean earlier. It was nice, but somewhat foreign to Sam. Only Dean...

Sam started to shake against his father again as he finished the sentence in his mind.

Only Dean ever comforted him like this. His earliest memories up to most recent - they were all of Dean's presence, touch, words, care.

"What do you want to do, Sammy?" John asked, knowing his son.

Sam put himself together as he pulled away from John. Not all the way, but far enough to look into his father's eyes. He coughed a couple times and John kept his hands steady along Sam's arms, rubbing them reassuringly as he gathered his composure.

"Ah," Sam breathed out, almost in pain now, from how much crying he'd done today. "Um," Sam tried again, "I wanna go see Dean," he managed, his voice so sore and weak by now. John nodded, giving Sam a few more seconds. Sam wiped the tears off his cheeks and rubbed his already-red eyes.

"Okay c'mon," John whispered as he pulled Sam up. "Here, Sammy," he said, handing out a few napkins he had in his pocket. Sam nodded and took them, blowing his nose and padding his sore eyes with the harsh fabric as John steered him closer and closer to Dean's room.

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**Writer's Note:**Thank you so much for reading! What'd you think of the blackjack thing? A good reveal? Had you kind of 'gotten it' all along? Still confused? Let me know - please review/comment if you can spare the time! ~ Alex


	6. Dealer's Hard 16

**Chapter Six: Dealer's Hard 16**

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When they'd gotten to the threshold, Sam halted, nearly hyperventilating with anxiety. He kept repeating his doubts in his head - _it was just too late. He'd be too late._

John hugged Sam from behind and Sam clutched his father's arms, curling in against his chest as if in fear.

"It's okay. He's got a broken leg - he can't attack you," John whispered dryly. Sam shook his head, ignoring the ill-timed one-liner.

"What if he tells me it's too late?" Sam whispered, turning his face to the side against his father's chest. He felt the arms around him give him a small hug.

"He's not going to do that, Sammy," John replied steadily. Sam nodded even though he doubted that. "You want me to come in with you?" John offered.

Sam bit his lip, considering, then nodded.

"Okay c'mon," John said as he pushed his now reluctant charge into the room. The partition was partially drawn around Dean's bed, so they couldn't see him as they shuffled along. Sam shrank in his father's arms as they came closer and began to tremble as they caught sight of Dean's blanketed feet and slowly walked up to reveal the rest of him.

Dean was sleeping soundly, head turned to the side. Sam didn't make a move, just remained staring at his big brother whom he'd reduced to tears not an hour ago.

Sam's face screwed up in pain as he looked at Dean. An apology would never be enough - not for a someone like Dean. You never got to hurt people like Dean and stay on as friends or even acquaintances. People like Dean don't hand out second chances. They're too smart for that...

"You gonna wake him up? Or should I?" John interrupted Sam's thoughts, tone low and calm. Sam swallowed and blinked back tears.

"D-Dean?" Sam breathed, still clutching his father's arms like they were roller coaster straps. "Dean," Sam whispered, infinitesimally louder. John gave Sam another small squeeze and coughed loudly.

"Dean," he stated, his voice suddenly back to what Sam considered 'normal.' The quick, sharp authoritative tone that always made what he said sound like a formal command.

Dean's eyes snapped open and darted to his father. At the sight of Sam in his arms, his eyes widened with alarm.

"Dad? Sam? What the hell happened?!" Dean shouted at them while reaching out for the call button.

"Dean, _no_," John ordered. Dean froze and gave his father a double-take.

"Dad, what the hell? He needs a doctor-" Dean yelled, outraged that his father was just holding Sam steady and face-forward. Holy shit - he was a quivering mess. He looked weak and _sick_, especially huddled against the tall, bulky figure of their father.

"He'll be okay, Dean," John spoke up patiently, shifting his hold on Sam. Dean tilted his head, literally about to ask, "What the fuck?" when John cut him off at the start. "Sam wanted to talk to you."

Dean's alert, harassed expression immediately fell into a hard-lined neutral. Still sitting straight up, he zeroed in on his brother's face.

"Okay," Dean said roughly. John gave Sam a nudge. Sam inhaled quickly and Dean flinched. It was literally painful to watch Sam pull himself together under John's arms. Dean morphed his initial neutral expression into a concerned grimace as his eyes roved around every inch of his brother, making sure he was okay. Eventually Sam was well enough to look Dean in the eye and Dean's pinched face looked back at him. Dean was only expressing annoyed empathy: whatever Sam was dealing with that made him look like this had to be needless.

Sam, though, interpreted it as disgust. His shakes increased and John noticed and held his son tighter.

"De-Dean," Sam stuttered hesitantly. Dean's mouth was open with alarmed irritation and he glanced up at his father. _What the fuck is going on_?

John nodded sharply at the boy in his arms, indicating to Dean to cut it and listen to his little brother. Dean licked his lips and tilted his head.

"Yeah Sam. What's up?" Dean asked, not unkindly. Sam's breathing caught up with him.

"I'm so... sorry," Sam choked out, bending over in grief, causing John to let go of him a little bit. Sam grabbed the railing at the foot of the bed to hold him steady.

"I am..." Sam promised, his stomach starting to roil and somersault in anxiety that Dean would reject his apology. He looked up at Dean for a second and gasped for air the next.

"Dean, I never meant..." he wheezed, tears covering his face all over again as he tried to yell his message out because anything with a softer tone would just turn into cries. "I never meant to make you! -feel!"

Sam's voice pitched and he hummed a moan, trying to get it together. He heard a low voice behind him.

"Sam saw us before, Dean. Saw you," John supplied gently.

Sam didn't dare look up at Dean, terrified that Dean was going to be pissed. Instead he worked on blinking the tears out of his eyes and tried to stop the fast shallow breathing. The mattress came into focus as his tears cleared and he could see the outline of one of Dean's feet under the blanket.

Without thinking, Sam's hand reached out and pressed against Dean's ankle through the blankets.

"Dean, please... please... I'm so sorry," Sam begged, still barely holding it together as he stared down at the mattress, starting to squeeze Dean's foot rhythmically.

There was just silence beyond Sam's desperate pleas and whimpers. Simple, stunned silence. It occurred to Sam that he was literally begging at Dean's feet. He didn't care, though. It was the closest he was going to get to Dean without getting shoved away. Sam's heart constricted when he thought that Dean could kick him off or just simply pull his leg away from his hand.

Suddenly Sam's fear of _that_ possibly happening threw him off the edge again. He leaned forward over Dean's foot, his head only inches from the sheets. Too exhausted to full-out sob anymore, he just struggled to breathe. Weak gasps punctuated the room's silence until he felt Dean's ankle move. Sam clutched it tighter, not willing to let Dean pull away...

"No," he cried, drawing the word out painfully, thinking Dean was moving to get away from him. He heard more rustling at the head of the bed where Dean was sitting and he shook with grief, fearing the worst. Dean was going to reject his apology and tell him to get out.

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**Writer's Note: **Thank you for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex


	7. Dealer Busts

**Chapter Seven: Dealer Busts**

* * *

"Jesus, Dad, what'd you tell him?" Dean whispered, startling Sam: Dean was a lot closer to him than he thought he was.

Sam felt careful fingertips touch his shoulder, then spread out to palm his back. Sam recognized Dean's touch.

"The truth," John replied simply.

Dean's other hand landed gently on the top of Sam's bowed head and moved down to the side of his face. Sam felt his father press against his sides from behind and push him forward - up towards Dean.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean encouraged calmly, reaching out and pulling Sam towards him. Sam gave one last sob as he blindly felt the bed in front of him to figure out where Dean's legs were. He realized the rustling he'd heard before must've been when Dean had moved them apart so he could lean forward and reach for him.

"Sammy, c'mere," Dean whispered delicately, gingerly gripping more of his little brother as Sam crawled up the bed. He got to where Dean was sitting and collapsed against Dean's chest, a fresh wave of sobs overwhelming him as he fell against his brother. Dean's arms folded securely around as Sam found himself start to let _everything_ out.

In a lot of ways _this_ moment was the worst for Sam. Realizing that he'd been doing to Dean for a _month_ what Dean had just done to him for literally only _ten minutes_ after waking up in a damn hospital bed. He couldn't believe how devastated he had felt - he couldn't believe how destroyed he would've been if Dean had carried on like he had for an entire month. The agony and guilt streamlined into him and released in the form of wracking sobs in the arms of the one person that needed to see and know how remorseful he felt - the person who needed to be reassured that Sam really understood how much he'd fucked up so he could forgive him.

The fact that he had to _prove_ to Dean how sorry he felt was exacerbating the situation - Sam was _making_ himself re-think and re-cycle over the same thoughts that got him going earlier, only twenty times faster and with quite a few more new ones thrown into the mix. Everything came together and fell apart: Dean having raised him only to be thanked with rejection, Dean could've died tonight, Dean could've died thinking Sam hated him or that he wasn't needed anymore.

But Sam really _really_ still needed him.

The feeling Sam had had when Dean had pulled away from him in the hospital and how that must've been what it felt like every god damn time Sam had flinched at Dean's touch - like he was repulsive, untrustworthy, even a threat... When all Dean had ever been was the primary symbol of safety and love literally ever since he could remember.

And even after all Sam had done, Dean had been livid when he had brought up the fact that he had actually saved Sam from getting hit by that car. He was furious that Sam had gotten to the point of thinking that Dean would have ever made any other choice. Dean must have _known_ that Sam was poisoning their relationship, but the only thing he could do - the only thing he could control - was his own unconditional resolve to keep him safe.

The blows kept coming for Sam as he rewound every moment, every conversation, every brush-off to reframe it in the right light: Dean was _always_ there, Dean was _always_ patient, open, trusting. Dean had never retaliated Sam's rejections with any of his own. Sam shook even harder at the realization that he wasn't a hundred percent sure if he would've had that kind of restraint if their roles had been reversed.

_Sam_ was the villain in this story; the betrayer. Dean had been run ragged and carved out by his little brother and still he sacrificed himself for him.

Sam didn't think it was possible for anyone in the world to cry as hard as he was now. He hadn't known, but after awhile John just decided to go ahead and close the door to their room to spare their family the concerned glances from passers-by.

John walked back down to sit in the chair, utterly conflicted. He loathed the sound of his youngest's agony yet he knew it was the only way Sam could redeem himself. He tried to exhaled a long sigh; tried to alleviate his frayed nerves, but failed because every sound his boy made just cut through him.

Literally each cry and every whimper and sob emanating from his son's lips was tearing into his heart and laying waste. The expression on Dean's face left no doubt in John's mind that Dean was feeling the same thing. He held his baby brother and rocked him, rubbed his back and whispered assurances that he was forgiven; that he could relax now and to please stop ripping the two of them to shreds with the sounds of pain coming from whatever the hell was going on inside their kid's head.

"Shh, Sam, relax, _please_, it's _okay_," Dean whispered desperately. Sam was melded against him, holding onto him for dear life as he continued to cry.

"It's _not_ okay," Sam barely whispered between hyperventilating gasps.

"Yeah it is," Dean said, his arm around Sam, brushing his hair back soothingly with his hand. "Sam, yes. Yeah it is, I promise, _I promise_," Dean pushed, hugging his brother at every emphasized word. Sam shook his head against Dean's chest.

"No-" He moaned weakly.

"Shh. It is, Sam, it's _okay_. I forgive you, you're okay," Dean insisted, his own eyes watering at the mere sound of Sam's anguish.

"I... didn't..." Sam gasped.

"I _know_ you didn't mean it. I know, Sammy," Dean promised, accidentally allowing Sam to launch into further cries as he repeated the phrase - in Dean's voice - in his head.

"We're_ good_, Sam, I promise," Dean's voice pitched for a second, "We're okay, all right? Just... please... Sammy, stop crying," Dean's voice cracked at his last question.

Sam heard the break in Dean's tone and tried to do as Dean asked. He inhaled and held it, hoping that'd stop his tears. A few moments passed and Sam gave a small hum, keeping himself still and suffocated.

Suddenly he felt Dean's chest tremble and the slightest hint of a laugh came out of his brother's lips.

"Sam, don't hold your breath. That's not what I meant, you idiot," Dean laughed thickly, blinking tears out of his eyes as he boosted Sam up and cupped the back of his head with affection.

At the asynchronous shift to comedy, Sam obeyed the embedded order by exhaling a wet laugh instead of another sob. "Hey, oh my god," Dean said in surprise, noticing that Sam had laughed. He tilted his head around to look into Sam's eyes.

"Sam, Sammy look at me," he whispered sincerely, ticking his shoulder and bouncing Sam's head so the kid would look up. Eventually Sam had no choice but to raise his eyes into Deans'.

"Sam," Dean intoned heavily, palming the side of Sam's face to keep him still. He searched the depths of his little brother's hazel gaze, concerned curiosity painted on his face...

"If I keep calling you names, ya gonna stop crying for me?"

Sam's eyes widened with surprise and gave another gasping laugh. Dean grinned slowly, taking Sam's laugh as a 'yes' and immediately push-pinned Sam against the bed.

"Squirt, Shorty, Midget," Dean reeled off as he hovered over Sam's face and started to tickle him around the waist.

"Dean!" Sam _actually_ squealed, making Dean laugh, before peeling off into quick, quiet breathes, "I'm too...old!" He gasped as he fought to repress laughter...

"Aw you're _never_ too old for this, Skidmark, Shortstop, Pipsqueak-" Dean stopped the minute Sam broke, bursting out guttural laughs that Dean hadn't heard for what felt like ages.

John slumped further back in his chair, feeling drained and monumentally relieved to hear something come from Sam's lips that didn't sound like the most heart-wrenchingly miserable slowly-dying cat...

Dean remained hovering over Sam, thanking god he was looking at a fucking _smile_ for once. Sam's breathing started to even out quickly as Dean brushed the kid's hair out of his eyes. Sam looked up at his brother and Dean bent down to hug his adorable, dimpled, _smiling_ brother. Sam tensed at first, then loosened up and returned the grip Dean had on him, his hold getting tighter and tighter as Dean held him.

"God, Sammy," Dean whispered into Sam's ear, the implicit message clear: _it's nice to have you back_. He felt Sam nod against him. They leaned back against the head of the bed and slowly disconnected. Dean dipped his head over to his father with a grin. John was smiling, too.

"Okay, um," John shook his head, trying to clear it, "I'm gonna, uh," he blinked, realizing he'd been shedding his own tears, "-be right back - I want to find your doctor for a few things, okay?"

Dean nodded, shifting himself in bed and extending his arm so Sam could duck under it. Sam went with it and settled in, lying down along the side where Dean's leg was cast.

"Yeah okay Dad," Dean murmured. John nodded and got out of there before his sons caught onto him.

Sam pretended to be a shy magnet, inching his way closer and closer against his big brother. Dean took it in stride, putting both arms around Sam and pulling the kid into him. Dean was exhausted - physically and emotionally. Sam, though: Sam looked somehow worse than he did when he'd walked into his room with Dad. He hadn't been injured at all yet Dean thought he'd needed a friggin _doctor_. He looked down at the kid in his arms and realized that Sam, snuggled closely against Dean, had started to breathe evenly. He had fallen asleep.

Dean followed Sam into oblivion a few minutes later.

* * *

Dean came awake slowly, his eyes fluttering for a couple of seconds until he opened them to slits. Still not completely conscious, he wriggled around in his bed, noticing something heavy lying on his left side.

"-_Tch!_" John sounded, a classic Winchester warning signal. Dean froze and focused his gaze up and to his left, looking up at John hovering over him. John pointed to Sam and Dean blearily looked down. _Oh yeah_. Sam had a blanket covering him now. Dean figured that was his father's doing - why he was hovering over them just now.

John put a finger to his lips and pressed his palms together and to the side of his face - _Sam was asleep_. Dean gave a lazy smile and a slight nod. He tracked his father as he walked around the bed to sit in the chair again. As he settled, Dean took his unpinned arm off of Sam's back and snapped for his father's attention. John looked up openly.

"Okay. Seriously. What'd you tell him?" Dean whispered, incredibly curious to know. John's eyes crinkled with mirth as he tried not to laugh. He faked an innocent shrug.

"C'mon," Dean goaded. John considered, then moved his chair forward silently so as to be closer to his eldest. He washed a hand down his face and shrugged slowly.

"We talked about a lot," John said honestly. "I explained to him why you're not like most brothers," he whispered as he watched Dean relax into his words and place his hand protectively over Sam's back again.

"I explained how it came to be that way - how I had always known and meant for you to take care 'a Sammy..."

Dean nodded with understanding. The words, 'take care of Sammy,' were never spoken, even in Dean's head, by anyone other than his father. It was the follow-through that was all Dean, though. Dean took care of Sam far better than his father could. He had long since accepted his father's limitations in that department and had done his damnedest to compensate for them.

Dean took a dry swallow.

"But wasn't that stuff what Sam didn't want to have anymore?" he breathed, confused. John smiled, translating Dean: _But Sam didn't want me - didn't like how I'd raised him_.

"No," John whispered, drawing the word out soothingly and shaking his head. "He was just confused. Getting mixed signals."

"About what?" Dean asked, bewildered. John sighed.

"I don't know," he lied, not wanting to go into it. His eldest son never paid attention to normalcy when it came to any element of their family. He didn't want to try Dean's patience by explaining Sam's point of view. Maybe another time, but not now.

"So, what, you just... got him to one-eighty on the whole thing because you... cleared up mixed signals?"

John blinked, thinking about it.

"Basically, yeah," he said, giving a soft huff of laughter.

"Dad-?"

"Well, I _may_ have asked him to think about what would have happened if you'd died today."

"_What?!_" Dean whispered vehemently, eyes lighting up with alarm.

"Shh," John hushed, brinking laughter, "you're gonna wake 'im!"

Sam moved just then and Dean realized he had jarred the kid when he'd reacted. The two of them fell into tense silence, but Sam just turned over, pushing his back up against Dean's side. Dean's hand settled carefully over Sam's waist now, and he turned back to his father.

"That was fucking _low_, Dad," Dean whispered playfully. John tried to hide his smile and shrugged, then gestured to Sam.

"It _worked_," he pointed out. Dean shook his head, smirking. He turned to stare at his kid brother sleeping soundly against him. He had to admit John was right: it had worked. He had his little brother back. His shy, gangly, nerdy, girly (_soo_ girly) little brother back. Dean drew Sam closer against him and Sam unconsciously nestled up.

"Jesus Christ," Dean swore quietly, smiling as he used his free hand to wipe his watering eyes as he turned to look back at his father. John was leaning forward, the smile lines on his face in sharp relief as his eyes twinkled with their own moisture. Dean leaned his head back against the pillow, staring at his father.

"Thank you," Dean said simply. John grinned and nodded. He tilted his head after a few moments, pensive.

"Y'know..." John murmured in thought, "We might not have a house, but we sure as hell have an edge," he chuckled quietly.

Dean's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," John waved, leaning back in his chair.

* * *

Dean shuddered awake again as Sam started to stretch around. Dean moved away to allow Sam space. Sam froze and Dean could practically hear the kid's memory recall whirring to what had led him to his spot in bed next to Dean.

"Ah... Shit, am I hurting you?" Sam whispered groggily, lifting himself up on his elbows and turning to look at Dean. Dean shook his head.

"No, you're good," Dean said lightly. Sam nodded and blinked, looking beyond Dean to the empty chair where their father had been.

"Where's Dad?"

"Picking up a few things - he'll be back soon. They're discharging me soon."

"AMA?"

"Nah, I check out."

Sam nodded tiredly. Dean watched his brother - the kid still looked wrecked, but no longer burdened. Sam shimmied down lower on the bed so he wasn't lying on Dean's arm anymore and slumped down on his stomach.

"Here," Dean offered one of the small hospital pillows and Sam took it with a bleary, 'thanks.'

"Y'okay?" Dean asked, trying to gauge it himself but needing help.

"_You're_ the one that got hit by a car," Sam murmured, turning his head on the pillow to look up at Dean. Dean smiled and gave an exaggerated shrug. _It was nothing_. Sam huffed a laugh and Dean smiled, then took a different tack.

"You're right. I got hit by a car. I'm in pain. Distract me."

"With what?"

Dean shrugged, then gave Sam a meaningful look.

"How's school?" He asked, testing the waters.

Sam quirked a half-smile and turned on his side to face Dean all the way.

"I want to audition for a play," Sam admitted shyly. Dean jerked his head back.

"Serious?"

"Seriously."

Dean thought on it for a few seconds and Sam waited for the verdict. Dean finally tilted his head back to address Sam.

"-For the lead, right?"

"Um. No, actually. There's a supporting role-" But Dean was already shaking his head.

"No no no, you gotta get the lead. Only the leads get laid."

"_Dean_..." Sam laughed.

* * *

**Writer's Note:** The epilogue is coming up tomorrow! Thank you so much for reading. Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex


	8. House Pays Out

**Writer's** **Note**: You know what I just realized? Tomorrow's Friday. Nobody'll want to read this on Friday! So I'm finishing the story up now for you guys so you all can enjoy your weekends. Thank you so much for your reviews - I really have been so completely blown away by the responses I've gotten over this past week. It's been so cool to hear from all of you. I CAN'T EVEN...! ;) ~ Alex

* * *

**Chapter Eight: House Pays Out**

* * *

"Oh, _god_," Sam breathed, squinting at a photo as he pulled it close.

"What?" Dean asked, lazily flipping through a magazine on the other bed. Sam pulled the photo out of his journal.

"Remember this?"

Dean turned and squinted, then reached over between the beds for the image and Sam let him take it. Dean's eyes lit up and he started a full-hearted laugh.

"Who. The shit. Thought _that_ day needed to be immortalized with a photo?" Dean guffawed, nearly tearing with laughter as he handed it back. "_That _day?_ Really?!"_

Sam laughed and shook his head.

"Yeah I have no idea," Sam trailed off, staring at the photo of Dean, Sam and John posing with Dean's casted leg in the hospital. All three were smiling, but Sam and Dean looked particularly worse for wear. Pale, exhausted faces, bloodshot eyes with dark bags underneath... Sam's hair was mussed and his eyes squinted from having just woken up next to Dean in the hospital bed.

"That day was like a Lifetime movie," Sam murmured.

"Yeah," Dean agreed casually, then stopped and looked at Sam. "'specially for you, dude," Dean teased. Sam turned to look at Dean, mouth open with indignation.

"Ah, eh, uh uh no.. Not-"

"Dude you cried, like, _hard_," Dean laughed, calling his little brother out.

"Ahm... There were... like... a lot of fucking things... to cry about..." Sam tried to defend, eventually breaking into a smile as Dean started laughing again. Sam looked back down at the photo, turning serious. "Nah, but we all shed tears that day."

Dean stopped and gave Sam a skeptical sidelong glance.

"You totally cried the most."

"I did _not!_" Sam whined back immediately. "You _totally_ cried like a...a..."

"-Sam Winchester?"

"_No,_" Sam laughed. He didn't know what it was but he _sucked_ at comebacks. "Seriously I didn't. We were like tied..."

"Mm, mm," Dean shook his head, smiling as he continued to fake-browse the magazine. Just then the door open and John walked in. Dean looked up and set the magazine down next to him.

"Hey, Dad, question."

"Yeah shoot," John grunted as he carried some groceries and a six-pack into the kitchen area. Dean got up to follow his dad to grab one of the beers.

"The day I tackled a car and broke my leg," Dean ringed the beer cap with a pop. "Who cried more?"

"Sam," John returned immediately.

"HEY OH!" Dean yelled, stepping into the living area to point at Sam who was still on the bed.

"Dad, no, c'mon that's not true..." Sam appealed, starting to get up and walk over to them. He leaned against the doorframe just as John finished a gulp of his beer. John smiled at Sam and shrugged.

"It's cool, Sam, we've known you're a girl for awhile now," Dean slapped Sam on the back.

"Thanks," Sam replied miserably, rolling his eyes.

"OH! That reminds me. Dad - can I take Sammy out to the Casino down, um," Dean turned himself around in the middle of the kitchen, then pointed at the window, "_that_ way? I don't know; it's west."

John raised an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"How you gonna do that when Sam's seventeen?"

"Oh I don't know... Maybe the fake I made for him'll work," Dean said loudly, flourishing it around.

"Seriously?!" Sam asked, rushing over to grab Dean's swinging arm to rip the card from his hand. Dean let him, smiling back at his dad.

"Aw. My youngest son's first fake ID," John said. Dean pointed at John, his charming grin coming out in full force.

"Don't ever tell me... That I'm a good influence."

John tsked.

"I'd never say that, Dean," he said with sincerity, winking. Dean winked back and pivoted into the living room. Sam was examining the ID under the bedside table lamp.

"So what's your game of choice if you guys go tonight?" John asked, casually following Dean.

"Dean," Sam called out, randomly grabbing Dean's shirtsleeve just as he sat down next to him. About to answer his father, Dean turned at Sam's touch, unconsciously prioritizing.

"What's up?" Dean murmured, scrutinizing the ID, hoping he hadn't missed anything. Sam looked up at him, confused.

"I don't get the name."

Dean grinned.

"Francis Xavier's Professor X in X-Men."

"Oh gotchya," Sam nodded and turned back to the ID as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Dean turned back to his dad, rubbing his hands.

"Blackjack," he decided.

"No poker?"

"Nah," Dean shrugged, "Too many sharks at poker in a real casino," he explained as he turned to look at Sam.

"Whaddaya say?" Dean asked, nudging Sam. Sam looked up.

"Yeah totally. Let's do it."

...

"All right you boys have fun," John said wearily, moving to go sit down to watch a game on the couch. Sam, dressed and ready, moved around to go to the bathroom and shut the door.

"Sure you don't want to come?" Dean asked as he put his jacket on and flipped the collar. John shook his head, then tilted it in thought. He'd never actually taught Dean Blackjack...

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the objective when you play Blackjack?"

"Bust the dealer."

"Where do you sit at the table?"

"Dealer's right."

John couldn't help but smile.

"That's called counting cards, you know," John warned playfully. Dean rolled his eyes.

"The house's edge is worse, Dad. And counting cards is a _band_."

Sam walked into the room just then, having caught Dean's last sentence.

"That's Counting _Crows_, you idiot."

"Oh well whatever," Dean waved, indifferent. "Don't worry we won't get sighted," he said more to Sam than John. John smiled and Sam shrugged, willing to trust Dean's promise.

"Okay, c'mon let's go, Francis." Dean tugged Sam's sleeve and Sam stumbled as he waved goodbye to John. They reached their respective doors and huddled into the Impala, waiting for the heat to kick in before they took her out. Dean cupped his hands to his mouth and breathed out, heating them up. Sam was doing the same. It gave Dean a second to reflect on the photo.

The month prior to that picture had been erased in the history of the Winchester family. Completely obliterated, it wasn't even allowed to be referenced. It was taboo. It was pretty weird to both Dean and John - they were over it and actually kind of remembered that day in the hospital as being one of Sam's most shining moments. Neither of them could hold back the wave of affection and love they felt for their youngest when they pulled that memory up in their heads.

Sam was obviously okay to talk about that day given that he'd shown Dean the picture just now, but ribbing Sam for having acted the way he had the month before? That was off-limits. Even in jest (and Dean had tried every once in awhile), Sam's guilt and shame over how he'd treated Dean would just come back full force. Dean would have to break the act and tell Sam that he was just kidding, that he hadn't meant anything by it, and that he was genuinely sorry for bringing it up.

Dean wasn't a huge fan that Sam wouldn't let it go or that Sam refused to lighten up about it. And yet, at the same time, deep down - so far down that Dean would never admit it (even to himself) - it made him feel pretty damn good.

_Fin_

* * *

_**Writer's Note:**__ The next chapter is an addendum essay for both blackjack amateurs & enthusiasts alike that appreciated this story. I explain the blackjack metaphors I used, specifically in reference to the story title as well as the chapter titles. Also there are a few extra writer's notes I make about the themes of this story and what statements I was trying to make with them. If you liked this story so much that you might just read through it again, I __**highly**__ recommend you read the next chapter, as it'll probably clue you into things you didn't know/hadn't known about during the first read-through - and for which you'd appreciate knowing during the second read-through. (And, just FYI - this is literally the very first __**story**__ I've __**ever**__ written that I think would be better the second time around). _

_ So click on if you're interested!_

_ If not, though, thank you so, so so much for reading and please review/comment if you can spare the time! Thank you! ~ Alex_


	9. Addendum

**Chapter Nine: Addendum**

Dear my awesome readers,

Hello!

So, I spent time on the story and chapter titles but if you're anything like me, you probably bypassed the titles & the effort to think about them because, damn it, a story's a story and this is fanfiction, not a friggin homework assignment.

Thus, I'm going to show my hand (har har) on this one in case you're interested.

Story Title: The "**house's edge**" refers to the statistical advantage built into the rules of every game played on a casino floor. In this story, it's meant to represent the unfairness and inaccuracy inherent in the popular opinion that a 'functional' family in society is a typical suburban household (and the typical distancing that happens with teens under those circumstances).

The **dealer** is the house's agent. Any references to the dealer's hand is indicating whether the house will, simply put, 'win,' or, 'lose.' The dealer at a blackjack table starts on their left and works their way to the right. The dealer's right is the most advantageous position on the table for a card-counter, as you've watched and kept track of the cards that've been dealt out during the shoe before the dealer turns to you and asks you what you want to do with your hand.

This story was about Sam's decision to 'play into' the inaccurate perception that a typical suburban household is more functional - thus more desirable - than his family's structure. Throughout the story, we want the dealer to go bust because we want Sam to thwart the house edge (ie: reject the notion that his family is dysfunctional simply because it is atypical).

Chapter 1: "**Ante Up**," is the phrase given by the dealer prior to the shoe. Before the cards are dealt, you set the amount you're willing to gamble on the table: this amount doesn't change unless you split or double-up (I didn't use those options as metaphors in the story, though). The **chips** were meant to represent personal self-worth. The root of Dean's self-worth is found in his role as Sam's guardian though, so while losing all his chips was devastating, it couldn't fully destroy him.

Ultimately, the very first scene of chapter one features Sam and Dean sitting down, placing their bets, and Sam makes his first, 'hit' (literally and figuratively).

Chapter 2: "**Hit me.**" Besides the obvious literal interpretation for this chapter (Dean getting hit by a car), in blackjack this term is used to ask for another card if you think it can get you closer to 21 (blackjack) without busting (going over 21 and losing your chips). However, it's not as cut and dry as that.

John likens Sam's behavior towards Dean as repeatedly instructing the dealer to hit his hand as he keeps getting low cards. Those low cards, though, would've helped Dean in his hand - as he uses strategy to determine how to play his hand in order to increase the odds of busting the dealer. When the dealer busts, everyone on the table 'wins.' Thus when Sam hits to improve his hand and forfeits the table so he can beat the dealer's hand (if the dealer doesn't go bust), he's still playing to the house edge: his hand might be over the dealers', but not the rest of the tables'. The dealer pays out to Sam only and the rest of the table loses their bets (resulting in a greater profit for the house even though Sam still gets to take down his winnings).

So, when Sam, 'hits,' he's still playing to the house's edge by allowing the house to take down the rest of the tables' chips - including Dean's (recall what the house and chips represent).

Chapter 3: "**Playing Policy**." The blackjack dealer plays, 'house rules,' otherwise known as, 'house policy,' or just, 'policy.' When a player sits down and plays policy, they're mimicking the dealer. What's relevant here is that a player going by policy hits until he or she reaches 17 or higher in their hand. Sam's behavior - consistently hitting until he reaches a high number (17+) - is an example of playing policy. In this chapter though, Sam breaks policy by touching Dean when he wakes up in the hospital. Dean, who's been consistently denied the opportunity to bust the dealer, has lost all his chips (recall what the chips represent). When Sam is suddenly willing to break policy for Dean, Dean tells Sam to keep playing like he has. The damage was done: Dean was out of chips. So why stop now?

Chapter 4: "**Dealer's Ace in the Hole**." Starting now, the chapter titles reflect the ups and downs of tension in the players (and my readers ;) while the dealer plays out their hand. The first card you see revealed is the dealer's, 'hole card,' - the card that was facing down the entire time players managed their hands. An ace in the hole is incredibly unpredictable, as several more cards than is usual can/will be dealt out to the dealer to determine their final number (if they didn't automatically get blackjack with the ace). This is because an ace can represent two values: eleven and one. When the dealer reaches any number assuming the ace's value is eleven, it is called a 'soft number.' When the dealer reaches any number assuming the ace's value is one, it is called a, 'hard number.'

I don't want to go that far into it, but just know that the minute you see the ace in the hole (and the dealer didn't get blackjack), you're going to have to brace yourself for an emotional roller coaster as you get set to watch the dealer play out their hand for what could be a longer-than-normal period of time (a similar feeling to the end of this chapter with Dean breaking down and Sam's arrested ability to make up for it: we simply don't know how long this impasse will last).

Chapter 5: "**Dealer's Soft 17**" is a reference to a house rule. Dealer always stands at a hard 17. However, when 17 is soft, dealer must hit. It's highly unlikely 2, 3 or 4 value cards will show. So, when the dealer receives anything higher than 4, they must switch to assuming the ace is at a value of 1 (to avoid busting), thereby landing their hand all the way back to a total value that can be as low as 7 (an ace and a six, for example). Whether this is a good thing or not is best determined by having counted cards beforehand but no matter what, it feels like you're getting a second shot at busting the dealer (and beating the house edge). Sam's conversation with John was introducing a Dealer's Soft 17 to Sam.

If you're interested in knowing, for card-counters, the basic understanding is this: if a lot of face cards have been recent in the shoe, the odds that more will show up as the dealer plays their hand out is lower. But if the table's gotten a lot of low cards, the odds that a face card will appear is higher. You might be wondering why it's terrible for Sam to use up all the low cards in his hand - after all, it increases the odds that the dealer will go bust. However, because Sam is in the middle of the table, when he's finished with his hand, dealer goes to Dean and Dean has to either stay at a suspiciously low card value (indicating that he's probably counting cards - and might get caught) or hit and end up using the face card that would've busted the dealer.

Chapter 6: "**Dealer's Hard 16**," is pretty much the best place the dealer can be for going bust. By policy, they must hit on 16. Players generally rejoice, as the dealer only has about a 38% chance they'll be able to stand on something. The Dealer's Hard 16 represents Sam's apology - a moment where the house's edge is almost definitely about to fail. I emphasize, "almost," because if Dean rejects Sam's apology, it is the equivalent of the dealer getting to stand and the house winning again. If Dean accepts Sam's apology, the dealer goes bust in the face of a solid team of card-counters (ie: a cohesive functional family) and the house must pay out to its players.

Chapter 7: "**Dealer Busts**," represents Dean's acceptance of Sam's apology, and the overall rejection of playing into the house's edge by sticking together and supporting one another.

Chapter 8: "**House Pays Out**," should be obvious, now. At the end of the shoe, the house must pay out to every member of the table if the dealer goes bust. Easily symbolic of the fact that the typical suburban household is indebted to the atypical - yet functional - Winchester family for literally saving their lives.

Some of you may have qualms about how I wrote the act of **counting cards** as representing a functional family dynamic. All I can tell you is that it's how Dean would teach it - and it's how I learned it from my badass older sibling. ;)

Also, I acknowledge that it's a little weird I wrote this in a way that seems to alienate anyone that currently lives - or ever grew up - in an Average Suburban Household. I think the story itself has a universal, attractive theme to it though, which is that the circumstances under which you grow up never determine whether the family dynamic is functional or not. Furthermore, that sometimes what may be a functional dynamic in one family does not mean it is (or should be) a trait of all functional families. Circumstances do affect families, and the way families are shaped by their circumstances, if those families are functional, means they won't give a damn what others think of them as long as every member's welfare is upheld & maintained.

Additionally, I'm pretty sure that a lot of kids, no matter their circumstances, go through a similar phase that Sam went through in this story - the idea that maturation is gained by giving and receiving rejection, overvaluing possessions, devaluing their support systems, claiming isolation, dealing with pain alone, etc...

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) for Sam, the only way in which his family functions (given their circumstances) is as an unconditionally tight-knit unit. Of all families in the world, Sam could never have hoped to fly under the radar with his.

Finally, John's quote: "Stay away from the softer sciences, bud." Probably one of my favorite lines in this story, as without my education in the 'softer sciences,' I probably wouldn't have been able to write this story. So for all of my fellow soft-science-educated readers - just know it was completely tongue and cheek on my part.

I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts - whether this made sense to you or not. It was a strangely emotional yet cerebral trip writing this fic. How'd you guys like it? - How do you like it now after reading through this essay of sorts? I actually kind of encourage you guys to reread the story (just zip through it - it's actually kind of short at just under 16k) and see if these explanations make it better - I've got my fingers crossed - Let me know!

Thank you so so much!

Love,

Alex


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